


In Every Ending

by Otherworlder



Series: Our Most Beloved Hero-King of Many Guises [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24691612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otherworlder/pseuds/Otherworlder
Summary: "And it was said that ever after, if any man looked in that Stone, unless he had a great strength of will to turn it to other purpose, he saw only two aged hands withering in flame." Yet those who have the courage to watch the bitter ending to the very last moment always see the new beginning.
Series: Our Most Beloved Hero-King of Many Guises [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785142
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	In Every Ending

Aragorn pushed open the Closed Door and walked down the long, winding road towards Rath Dinen. He was alone, and no kingly finery adorned him, save Anduril at his side. He went quietly with a heavy heart, for this was the task he most dreaded since the defeat of Sauron, and even now he was not certain that he was truly equal to it. 

The House of Stewards still lie in ruins. The dome was gone and white pillars stood bare to the sky, like broken swords. Aragorn ducked into the ruin and saw utter destruction all around him. There was nothing except shards of white stone, jagged and blackened by fire. He stumbled through the rubbles until he finally located what he searched for: the palantir, sitting atop of what remained of a great marble table.

Loyal servants had come into the ruins to take away Denethor’s remains, but none dared to touch the palantir. They collected the black, twig-like hands still holding the stone, but still no one would take the stone itself. For the palantir burned, so the servants claimed, and a pair of fiery hands flashed red and evil on the smooth black surface. It was cursed, they said.

Aragorn held a hand above the black stone.

Show me the kingdom of Gondor under the sun of a new age, he willed. 

Almost instantly the stone came to life, glowing with a fell red light. A terrible flame seemed to burn inside the stone, and within the flame two withered hands. There was nothing else to see, only the burning hands like sticks of charred wood.

Enough! My heart does not dwell in the past. Show me Gondor. Show me the sun and the sky and the new age.

The fire burned brighter still inside the stone, almost as if in mockery. 

Aragorn found that he could not turn the seeing stone away from that wretched image of a dying man’s grasp. Was the stone not his to command? Did he lack valor or willpower? He was the last heir of Numenor, this palantir was his by right. And he was no weak, untested youngling; he had commanded a host of the dead and matched will with the Dark Lord Sauron. Yet somehow this stone would not yield itself to him. 

It was as if Denethor reached from beyond from the circles of the world and grasped tight the stone. This was the last stronghold that the once steward would not surrender to the King Returned, not even in death. 

Aragorn breathed out slowly. 

What nonsense! He should at least not deceive himself. Denethor did not haunt this ruined hall or this stone; it was his own heart that falters, weighed down by regret and guilt. 

So he placed both hands upon the stone and cried out loud, “Show me all of it then! Show me every despair you have known! I fear not the burden of memories, for a new age has begun.”

Finally the image in the stone changed. Instead of fire and the gnarled hands he saw fire and field of war. Horses trampled over bodies and the bloodied grass of the Pellenor field, siege towers loomed like evil trees, and the Anduin River flowed black. At first one could hardly tell what storm clouds gathered over the great river, only that it was dark and bleak. And then he saw it! A mighty fleet stretching as far as eyes can see sailed up the river, black against the glittering water, moving ever so slowly yet coming closer and closer…

Again the scene changed. The battlefield faded and the stone now showed a small chamber with walls and floor of white marble. Denethor stood in the middle of the chamber, behind a table on which the palantir sat glowing in the gloom. His entire attention was fixed on the stone, seemingly entranced, and then suddenly he straightened. 

“So the end has come,” Denethor murmured. 

Should one hear anything from the palantir?

But Aragorn heard it nonetheless, with his mind’s ears even if no sound cut through the silence of this desolation. Inside the stone Denethor threw back his head and laughed, his ringing voice became a blade plunged deep into Aragorn’s heart. 

“I wish you were here to see this, Thorongil!” Said the once steward, “The Corsairs of Umbar, do you see? This was once your greatest triumph, but now so utterly undone! It has come to deliver Gondor’s final death stroke. Even valor like yours, ha, whatever valor it was, becomes nothing before the test of time. Now is the end of all things! I will not stand here and wait for the enemy’s blade to fall; if I must die I shall die by my own hands, in a fiery tomb of my own making. None shall wrest that power from me!”

Denethor threw a dark cloth over the seeing stone, and with the wrapped stone in his hands, he left the chamber. 

“No, Denethor, no!” Aragorn exclaimed, forgetting momentarily that the sight before his eyes was but a memory of the past. His face was deathly pale as he whispered, “Stay, stay and look a little longer, I beg of you! I have unfurled my banner in a place unlooked for, at Gondor’s darkest hour, and I have returned, just as I swore to you all those years ago. Why will you not stay and see hope?”

But Denethor slammed the door shut with a thud, leaving behind an empty chamber, a city still under siege, and the High King of the West haggard and grieving, bent over the image of a soul that would not be saved. 

The stone faded to black, but quickly something else appeared. This time Aragorn saw a lonely and long-limbed figure, wrapped in ranger green, plodding along a forest path with an unsteady gait. The man must be wounded, for he dragged a leg behind him, and blood dripped with his every step. A few moments later, as if overcome by his injuries, the lonesome figure stumbled and fell, lying on the forest floor unmoving. Finally Aragorn realized that the unfortunate ranger was none other than himself, on one of his many journeys that he could barely recall. Before he could decipher the meaning of this vision, the image in the stone changed again. Again it showed that small chamber of white stone, with a table at the center holding the palantir. Someone stood mesmerized behind the seeing stone, but it was not Denethor—it was Denethor’s father, Ecthelion.

Aragorn drew a sharp breath. He never knew and never imagined it possible that Ecthelion too used the seeing stone. He thought Ecthelion too humble and too gentle a soul to attempt something so desperately foolhardy. So Gondor exposed itself to the Dark Lord even before Denethor’s stewardship, and long before his slow descent into despair and madness. 

Why, Ecthelion, why? 

The image of Ecthelion inside the seeing stone was no less shocked than Aragorn. The old man cried out in a trembling voice, “No, no! He is dead then… But no, he cannot be dead! Thorongil, you swore to me you shall return! Oh Thorongil, dearest friend, are you gone forever then, gone and left us behind? What hope is there now?”

Aragorn stared at the unfolding memory with horror. 

No, my lord, believe not those lies—I live!

Just then the door behind Ecthelion burst open, and a wrathful Denethor swept into the room.

“Father!” The then heir-apparent exclaimed, “Are you mad, father? How can you look into that accursed stone?!”

Ecthelion spun around in shock and anger and the old man snarled his son, “How dare you speak to me thus? You are not steward yet, boy, and I am still your father and your lord. You will pay me the respect I deserve!”

Denethor took a step back from his father. He too seemed shocked. Ecthelion had always been a gentle, cheerful man, and he never spoke such harsh words. Denethor breathed, seemingly taking a moment to calm himself, before speaking in a softer voice, “Surely you know the dangers of the palantir better than I do, father. Messengers arrive in Minas Tirith daily, north from Dale and south from the edge of far Harad, west from across the White Mountains and east from the very gates of Mordor. What more news do you desire? What can be so urgent and so desperate that you must use the palantir?”

“Messengers come from all corners of Middle-earth, yet no one speaks his name,” Ecthelion lamented, “Thorongil! I want to see Thorongil again, son.”

Denethor’s face paled. He said, voice low but vehement, “He is gone, father. The shadow of the east grows ever more oppressive, a mercenary would have no reason to return and face the Dark Lord’s wrath.”

Ecthelion turned to his son with a look akin to pity. The old man murmured, “I know you love him not, but he is no mere mercenary, even you should know that. Until his coming I had thought life would go on like this forever, in fear and uncertainty, oppressed by the shadows of east, and even the faint memory of better days fleeing from us. But he came, and alas! Suddenly I can see hope again. He will return; Gondor is his destiny, so he once said.”

“He will not return to you now, father. Will you not look to the living instead?” 

Those words were like the stroke of a merciless blade to Ecthelion. The old man swayed, only managing to stand still leaning on the table, and his face was ashen. He murmured in a barely audible voice, “Do not speak thus, my son. We must all hold on hope, for it is our only defense in this dark age.”

“But there is nothing to hold on to for you,” Denethor replied, “Your Hope is dead, father, will you refuse to see it? He did not even have the grace to live long enough so that an old man in his dying days may suckle some cheap delusion for a moment of peace.” 

Denethor must be furious, for though his voice was calm his words were bitter and ruthless. Ecthelion shuddered, but the next moment he stood to his full Numenorean height and roared like a wounded lion.

“Silence!” The old steward cried, “I have suffered you petty insolence for long enough, and I am done listening to you spew venom against one who more than deserves your respect and gratitude. Get out, be gone from my eyes; the very sight of you sickens me! You are no son of mine.”

Aragorn could watch no longer. 

In fact he could barely find the strength to stand. So he sat down on the ground, back against the ruined marble table, the seeing stone in his lap. The stone was dark now, displaying no image, yet it was still burning to the touch, as if unleashing the last of its remembered anger. He sat there in the broken tomb for what seemed like an eternity, when he suddenly heard a voice calling. 

“Sire? My lord? Are you there?”

“Faramir,” Aragorn murmured as an acknowledgement.

“My lord,” The young man came near and knelt down on one knee before Aragorn, peering at the King with a concerned expression, “It is dangerous to linger here; the ruins are unstable. Please, will you come with me?”

Aragorn turned and looked upon Faramir’s face, a face so like his father’s and grandfather’s. Aragorn sighed and said in a low voice, “I have failed you, Faramir.”

“My lord?” Faramir stared back at his king with ample confusion, “You saved my life, sire, and this city, and you led us to victory at the Black Gate.”

“I have failed your house,” Aragorn murmured, “When you brother sounded his horn on the bank of Anduin I could not reach him in time. When your father looked into the seeing stone he saw my fleet and his doom. And your grandfather… I pledged to him my life’s service, yet in the end I left him only grief and regret, and worse yet, a bitter estrangement with his own son.”

Faramir was both indignant and worried. He glanced at the seeing stone, before commenting, “What have you seen in the stone, my lord? I thought now that Sauron is gone, the palantir would only show truth.”

Aragorn replied, “The palantir cannot show falsehood. Even during Sauron’s reign he could only bid the stone to show selected truths, rather than outright lies. I have only seen truth in the stone, and alas! Truth is a terrible thing.”

Faramir fell silent and stared at his king intently. Suddenly it seemed to him that his king was but an aged and vulnerable man, burdened by the desolation of many winters—too many, perhaps. At first the thought was terrifying. Like everyone else in Gondor Faramir looked for a savior in the king returned. That was what the king seemed to them all, a legendary figure from the mist of forgotten times, unleashing a spring of renewal like the sun in its zenith. To see a moment of utter weakness in such a savior was indeed unsettling.

Then it occurred to Faramir he was still the steward of Gondor, and this title was given in earnest. If there was any moment he should volunteer his service, now would be the time.

“Sire, will you tell me what you saw?” The young steward asked in a gentle voice, “I would share your burden, if you allow it.”

Aragorn remained silent for so long, Faramir was beginning to think perhaps he had overstepped his bounds, but suddenly Aragorn gestured for him to sit down. 

“I will tell you, for you more than anyone deserve this tale,” Aragorn murmured, “Long ago I served under your grandfather, as a captain of Gondor. I have won many friendships, but your father’s was not among them. He disliked me a great deal, perhaps with good reasons, so it seems to me now.”

Slowly Aragorn recounted the terrible scene he had seen in the palantir. He spoke of Ecthelion’s desperate bid, of Denethor’s anger and bitterness, and that venomous exchange between father and son more befitting of a spar between enemies. 

At the end of the tale Faramir exclaimed, “So you are the famous Eagle of the Stars!”

Aragorn nodded once and bowed his head. They fell into silence once more. Aragorn was perhaps too weary to speak, but Faramir’s silence only masked his shock. 

Faramir had of course heard of the famous Captain Thorongil who was a blight to all of Gondor’s foes, and he had also heard tales of Ecthelion’s great love for this man and Denethor’s contempt. Yet he did not know Thorongil had created such an unpassable chasm between his father and his grandfather. He sat in silence for a long time, mulling over this sad tale. 

At last he said to his king, “Surely you cannot blame yourself for my grandfather’s lack of temperance and my father’s strange moods, sire. My father loved Boromir above all and had few kind words for me, and Boromir fought him ever on my behalf, but he would never blame himself for being the favored one. It was not his blame to bear, as it was not yours, my lord.”

“Aye, Boromir was a noble man. He did not speak of you much, but when he spoke, it was plain to everyone in our company how dearly he loved you,” Aragorn paused in thought, that look of torment still marring his features. A few moments later he sighed deeply, saying, “But alas! I was not Boromir’s equal in generosity. ”

“In the beginning I barely noticed Denethor’s unhappiness,” Aragorn recounted slowly, “For he was a reserved man of impeccable manners, and I accustomed to the bluntness of the Rohirrim. Thengel too favored me above even his own kinsmen, but he was a just and well-tempered king and his favor, however bestowed, bred no discontent. Theoden I loved like a blood brother, and he was too young to resent my place beside his father. If anyone disliked me in the golden hall, he would never hesitate to tell me so! For a while I was utterly blind to Denethor’s black mood.”

“When I finally began to realize that perhaps the Steward’s son loved me not, I was too proud to act upon it. I owed Denethor nothing more, I thought. He was to be the Steward of Gondor, what would he have from me? I have already offered my sword, my fealty, even my life should Gondor demand it—what more? Refusing Ecthelion’s friendship for his sake? Unconditional deference and obedience to the future steward? No. I am the heir of kings. I will serve like a common foot soldier if need be, but I will not pay homage to any man’s pettiness, so I thought. Surely I deserve it all, be it Ecthelion’s love, or the rank and file’s devotion, or whatever honor the kingdom of Gondor can offer. I accepted all of it without even an attempt at humility. I did not think about what it would mean to Denethor, for I hardly cared.”

“I was young then, Faramir, proud and stubborn. Denethor loved me not, yet I too had little patience and consideration for him, and of that nothing is said and heard. If only I offered him a little more empathy, as Boromir did for you! Perhaps I would not have wrought such a chasm between father and son. As I sailed up the Anduin I wondered briefly what I should say to him after all those years. I dreaded the reunion, yet also strangely longed for it. I would like—nay, say rather I desperately hoped!—to make amends with him, Faramir. I am sorry.”

Silence overtook them once more. 

After what seemed like forever Faramir murmured, “My grandfather died before I was old enough to understand anything, yet remembering those tales I have heard while growing up, it did not seem to me that lord Ecthelion passed in bitterness. My uncle once told me that my grandfather and father were not the closest father and son, but they achieved an understanding before my grandfather passed away, and they spent their last days together in peace and love.”

Aragorn turned and looked at Faramir. He nodded slightly in gratitude, but his expression remained sorrowful and mostly disbelieving. So Faramir tried once more, “I do not say this to you as empty condolences; I am passing on to you truth as I know it. Will you not look into the palantir and see for yourself? It seems that you have not seen the end of that terrible tale you glimpsed, sire.”

“What is an end but sorrow and loss and regret without amend? What more is there to see?” Aragorn replied wearily.

“Is truth not better than ignorance? Is perseverance not better than despair?” Faramir’s voice was gentle, but his words were anything but, “Do you not wish, my lord, that my father would have stayed by the seeing stone and watched the ending—the one where you raised the standard of kings and cleansed Pellenor field of Gondor’s foes?”

A look of amazement overtook Aragorn’s features, and suddenly he laughed once more, and it was as if the chill of winter finally evaporated, and there was light again, even inside this ruined tomb. He put a hand on Faramir’s shoulder and said, “You are wise beyond your years, Faramir son of Denethor. Thank you, and I am glad to have a steward and friend such as you. Come then, look into the palantir with me; it is as much yours to command as it is mine, for you are the steward of Gondor. We shall see every remembered sorrow until the very end, and then we shall leave this tomb behind and embrace this new age.”

Ecthelion reappeared in the seeing stone.

He reached out a hand towards the retreating back of his son and cried out, “Stay yet, Denethor, stay and listen to me, my son!”

So Denethor stopped. He kept his back towards his father, but he stopped before the door nonetheless. 

They stood in silence for a long while, and after what seemed like forever Ecthelion pronounced his own doom, saying, “I am at the end of my days, son, and I will go to my forefathers. Whatever hope or despair remains you must face it alone. Do you not see? I looked into the stone to find Hope for your sake, Denethor, for I shall not live to see it. He would be hope not just for Gondor, but for you and your children too. Do not doubt my love for you, for how can a father not love his son?”

“It is a mighty task to not doubt your love sometime, father,” Denethor spoke softly. 

“Forgive my harsh words, but I am an old man at the end of his days and the end of his temper,” Ecthelion said, “Your words to me, son, were they not harsh? Yet I do not doubt your love for me. You are an honorable man and a good son, you have borne much in silence out of your love for me, even though you cannot always keep your tongue. Turn around, Denethor.”

Denethor turned around slowly. His face was pale and his eyes dark, but he no longer seemed wholly taken over by fury. He looked at his aged father and there was something akin to regret in his dark eyes. 

Ecthelion continued, “I know you have no love for Thorongil, and I do not flaunt his name to challenge you. Forget that man then, but remember what he means to me—renewal, and Hope! Yes, Hope for something beyond this darkness. I have foreseen it. Hold on to that Hope, Denethor, and look for His return.”

“Is it wise to equate hope with one man? Has he not killed yours?”

“No indeed,” Ecthelion said firmly, “I am old and failing and I let the shadows deceive me for a moment. Hope shall not die, not until you abandon Him. I will watch every ending until the very last moment and I will see the stars. That is my choice. Remember this, Denethor, one day you will do well to remember this. But come now, my son, let us go to the courtyard and look west together.”

Ecthelion reached a hand towards his son, and Denethor took it. 

For a deceptive moment it seemed as if the palantir finally remembered scenes of peace, yet the next moment the black stone was awash with flames once more. Denethor laid himself upon the marble table, the very one that held the palantir now, and he laughed as fires crackled about him. 

Faramir started. He took two small steps back almost involuntarily. He was less prepared for this than he had imagined, or perhaps hoped, and now terror and pain threatened to crush him under their weight. 

A hand was suddenly on his arm, firm and gentle. The king’s voice said, “Fear not, Faramir, it has all passed. You do not have to linger here if you do not wish to. The sun has climbed high outside.”

Faramir took a deep breath and shook his head. “I wish to see this,” He said, “To see it until the very last moment.”

There was little to see now; the palantir offered nothing except flames and two withered hands. Yet still king and steward watched silently. 

Suddenly they heard a voice.

“I see stars…” It was Denethor’s voice, barely a whisper, yet the words were clear, “That banner…Seven stars… and one white tree…I will not greet him, but Faramir… Live, Faramir, live!”

And finally the flames died.

They saw Minas Tirith inside the palantir, the courtyard of white stone gleaming underneath the sun. Beside the bare, ancient tree, many centuries dead, a young sapling shivered in the spring breeze. 

Faramir blinked away tears and he murmured, “I live, father.”


End file.
